Whack-A-Rob

"Are we ready?"

It was a good question when she first asked it. I answered with an affirmative. I'd read the brochure, everything looked good.

I'd read another brochure too. You know the one, the "It'll get easier" one. That's what it said on the reverse flap. There's a picture of a guy, he's pulling himself out of the pool, his perfectly tanned body glistening with droplets of joy, and a billboard smile stretched across his face that reads, "this is the good life."

Yeah, I want that one!

See, but here's the fine print: "results may vary." I didn't see that when I bought into the brochure. "You'll be happier after the divorce." That's the catch phrase wrapped in logo swirls of cinnamon bun goodness.

I'm not.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not asking for a refund. I bought the package, caveat emptor. What's done is done, insert cliché here cuz I've paid for it.

It's just that I've been alone long enough to rebuild my wall. It's a good wall It's all sealed and pretty; people stay over there, I'll be over here. Almost 2 years ago, I started packing brick and mortar. I've finally gotten it up, and suddenly I'm missing the people again.

What the hell is that? That guy isn't climbing out of the pool, he's suspending himself because once he started treading water, he cramped. That smile is as fake as the rest of the book.

I know who to blame. Some wonderful person reminds me of all the things I'd blocked off. They show me a new brochure, with new smiling faces. It's the cruelest trick ever when they leave and take it with them. Now I don't have the brochure, and my wall is in rubble.

"Are we ready?" She'd asked me that very early in the deal.

"Yeah," I'd signed by the X.

I was wrong. I wasn't ready--at least not to let her go as quickly as she'd arrived.

I hate being wrong.

Today I started getting stir-crazy at the house. I've been used to it without a problem for months. Then tonight, I couldn't screech down the driveway fast enough. It was like the house tapped me on the shoulder saying, "hey! Remember that somebody was just here?" Even my dog wandered around like, "Where's the other person?" He hadn't had the opportunity to do that since MyEx left.

I feel like a teenager again, without the big giddy, but with all the insecurity. I'm vulnerable. The last time I was vulnerable, I got divorced. All I could think is that I've left myself both vulnerable and alone. My brochure of goodness started sounding like a pact with the devil. Ok, maybe that's a little melodramatic, but when you're the lone head inches over a "Whack-a-mole" table, you cant help but feel something bad is gonna happen.

Besides, when have you not known me to be melodramatic?

Sitting alone with my Itunes, all I could do was shiver. It finally started to get to me. I'm not sure if I was just being stir-crazy or that I really missed the woman who was here.

So, I decided to find out: I called her. I called the woman without a cool nickname; we hadn't spoken since she left. I tried talking. It didn't help. I was more confused than before I called. Yeah, I'd been here too. I have that brochure in another piece of baggage. Now I'm out for coffee, cuz I couldn't sit at home anymore.

"Are we ready?"

I'm not ready to feel alone again, and yet the brochure only promised a weekend. It's my fault for wanting more. I should have been prepared for that. I thought I was; I'd seen the brochure. It said everything was fine.

I didn't know the brochure lied.